July Writing Prompts 2015
by Starluff
Summary: From the Watson's Woes community on Livejournal, here I will put all my responses for the prompts. Will be multi-fandom but mostly ACD.
1. So Many Things

_**FFN is telling me that this is 102 words but my program is telling me it's 100 words. What gives?**_

 _ **Anyway, here's to a successful start to JWP of 2015! I only managed to finish one fic on time last year because I didn't know how to write drabbles and didn't want to write unless I had an idea. This year, I'm just going to power through and try to write on time as much as possible. We'll see how that goes :)**_

* * *

"What is the worst that could happen?" Watson asked with a small, self deprecating smile.

Images passed through Holmes' mind. He could see, in perfect detail, a bullet passing through Watson's torso, spraying blood and breaking bone. He could see shadows of their prey appearing around the corner, stumbling across them and ruining their plan, escaping into hiding never to be seen again. He could see the structure of the old building they were in breaking and falling all around them. He could see so many things…and he found that those images were reflected in Watson's eyes.

"What indeed?"


	2. The Ribbon

_**I didn't manage to do 100 words, but I did 150, which is good enough for me :)**_

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Watson picked up the yellow ribbon from its hiding place in his drawer. It was old and faded but still recognizable. He touched it carefully, reverently, so as not to do any more lasting damage than needed to be done. He could remember, quite clearly, the way it had looked in Mary's fair hair, pulling it out of her lovely face. Watson smiled. He wiped his eye, which must have got a bit of dust in it.

There was a soft knock at the door to his bedroom. Watson looked up to find Holmes standing in the open doorway, looking solemn.

"I hope I am not trespassing," Holmes said, "but I need to go through the notes of the past case and I need your help. But if you are not free..."

"Not at all, old fellow. I will be with you in a moment." Watson got up and followed.


	3. Art in the Blood

_**I hadn't included it at first because I wanted to make sure that fics with no Watson content are okay in the WW comm. Apparently they are, so I'm going to post it. Enjoy :)  
**_

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"Sherlock, it's time for dinner!" Mycroft called - or, at least, as loud as Mycroft ever got. He was a very quiet person, almost Sherlock's opposite in every way.

"One moment, Mycroft," Sherlock murmured loudly. Sherlock barely heard Mycroft; he was too focused on the task at hand, his heart pounding with excitement at this piece he was creating. He had been practising for a week now and Sherlock had a feeling that this would be the one that would look like what he was shooting for.

Sherlock pushed away from his desk, unable to keep the smile from his face. He suddenly noticed Mycroft at his shoulder, looking at his work. The boy got nervous, waiting anxiously for Mycroft's opinion - Mycroft's opinions were law.

"Well done," Mycroft said. There was a smile in his voice that made pride grow and flourish inside Sherlock. "It's in the blood, you know."

"What is?" Sherlock frowned.

"Art. Your great-uncle was a great artist, I've heard, though I've not seen any of his work." Mycroft smiled, "Though I don't think he ever used pirates as his inspiration."

One half of the golden autumn leaf Sherlock had purloined from the garden was intact. The other half had been carved inside it the shape of half a pirate skull, leaving enough leaf in the middle to be an eye, nose, and half a crooked smile. Even the teeth had been carved out. It all showcased, if nothing else, the boy's near obsessive attention to detail.

"I don't think I'll do it again," Sherlock commented.

Mycroft nodded in approval, "Talent and enjoyment don't always go hand in hand. But it's important to try many different things."

"I didn't want to draw but I didn't have any the equipment to do anything else."

"What about the violin?"


	4. Mysteries Abroad

**_BECAUSE WE ARE A MULTICULTURAL FANDOM! *Shakes fist*_**

* * *

After Afghanistan, John felt the heat really wasn't that bad. It was quite nice, in fact, but Sherlock looked like he was dying. To his credit, Sherlock didn't say anything, but his face was red and he seemed a bit more sluggish than usual.

"Remind me again why we're here?" John muttered to his personal pain in the buttocks, Sherlock. He didn't know if he meant 'here' by where they were sitting (a Ma'idat Rahman, which is to say, something that mosques do during Ramadan where they will feed anyone who wants to be fed), the city they were in (which was Zamalek, if you were curious), or even the city (Egypt), Christ, the fucking continent. (If you know your world geography, you'll know the continent is Africa.)

Sherlock, of course, had no such uncertainty and assumed (or, since Sherlock never assumes, he willfully ignored the rest) that John just meant where they were sitting.

"Because we've just discovered that the man Mycroft wants us to find is having a very important meeting right after this Ma'idat Rahman and we need to follow him." Sherlock replied.

"Wouldn't it be better if we, oh I don't know, were a bit more in disguise? Won't the man just spot us anyway?" John groused. It wasn't that they were doing anything or wearing anything strange, but you may as well stamp 'Foreigner' on their foreheads, they stood out that much. He was pretty sure that that group of girls they had seen earlier had been giggling and pointing at them. And now they were getting weird looks, like they were confused as to why they were here and what they needed free food for.

"No, Zamalek is full of foreigners; it would be perfectly ordinary for one, or two is this case, were to come here for a free dinner as well as for the novelty."

John shrugged, still uncomfortable but resigned to his fate. After a few minutes, the Mosque's speakers played the Athan, the announcement that it was time to pray Al Maghrib and eat. Someone came to give both John and Sherlock a Styrofoam plate with what was known as fata, rice with bread and red sauce basically, some meat, and pickled ... stuff. Was that a pickled lemon?

John shrugged off his discomfort and decided to not care. The food was pretty good and who knew when they would get to rest and eat again when Sherlock were back on the scent? John poked Sherlock to get him to eat and tucked in.


	5. Drifting on Music

_**I couldn't think of anything to write for the poem, so I opened up iTunes, put it on random, and pressed play. I got Pablo de Sarasate - Hommage à Rossini,Op.2. This is the result. Where was this idea when the music was the prompt?! (And what it is even? Like what?)**_

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A violin and a piano play in my mind. It is a tune that was played on a certain occasion that I would be loathe to forget. It is a cherished memory that I only return to when I truly need to, as if not to weaken its affect or tarnish the memory in any way. I have stored this particular memory in my little brain attic, carefully tucked away where I can reach it whenever I need it. The violin skips and frolics glibly as the piano is plucked in the background. I can feel the smooth wood of the violin in my hands, under my chin; my arm still remembers how it pushed and pulled the bow against the strings. I can also remember how the piano played next to the violin, how we danced around each other. The melody danced around that room as if there was no one else present, stepping around and with each other, spinning and leaping until I was almost breathless. The violin sang and the piano played, and it was beautiful. What was more beautiful was how I raised my eyes during the playing to meet the eyes of my own Boswell at the piano, and how he smirked back.

I drift away now on the memory of music, away from this foul-smelling cell. It is only a temporary residence, and I will be out to play once more soon enough.


	6. Mastiffs and Steam Locomotives

_**This is a**_ **A Study in Emerald** _ **fic, set in the same world as my other fic,**_ **Rache and the God Slayer** _ **. This might be a massive spoiler if you haven't already read aSiE, so I would recommend going to read that first before delving into this. You should read aSiE anyway, it's an amazing story and one of my favorite all time fics (pastiche, whatever).**_

 _ **If you haven't read, and don't want to read, aSiE, then some basic info: long story short, gods (of the Lovecraft variety) invaded our world centuries before the start of the story. Holmes and Watson are part of the Restorationist, who want to, you guessed it, restore the original order of the world and let humans rule themselves. And now, without further ado...!**_

 _ **P.S. (A.K.A one last ado) Forgive me for the title, it was the best I could come up with ;(**_

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There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the ground, and I do not think I am exaggerating when I say that I have never been so satisfied in my life. I watched with, while not joy, certainly a deep satisfaction in my bosom. I watched the blood spill onto the ground, fixated, and it seemed that some of my thoughts were betrayed on my face, for I noticed that Miss Hunter was looking at me with confusion that gave way to horror. Her expression did not alter my own smile.

Rucastle's death was painful but unfortunately quick. When his body stilled at last, the brute looked up at us. I looked into its eyes and found fury and a thirst for blood in there. It was a near match for the look in my own. My gun was trained on it, ready to do fulfill its function if the brute decided to turn its attention to us. I felt loathe to kill this thing that had been twisted beyond recognition from its original state by a monster for a master; think of what it could have been with a kinder hand to care for him? Would it have been loyal, I wonder, ready to do that same action on its master's enemy instead of on the master himself? But, thankfully, my gun remained idle, for the dog, as if sensing danger (or perhaps a kindred spirit), turned around and left.

We reentered the house and found Mrs. Toller there. She explained to us how Alice's fiancee come to spirit her away and was somewhere far away by now. Holmes frowned and rubbed his chin.

"I wonder how far he will get, where he could have gone," Holmes mused. "In any case," Holmes turned to Miss Hunter, "did you find the papers?" He asked, referring to the papers that had made Miss Hunter take the job in the first place and made poor Alice a prisoner in her own home: papers that had very detailed descriptions of what the Royals did in the country. Rucastle had found out about the papers but hadn't known their hiding place, so he threatened to never let her go until she told him. He then hired Miss Hunter (who was secretly a Restorationist under Holmes' orders) to keep the fiance back.

"No, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hunter replied, changing her posture to reflect their relationship, that of a soldier addressing her superior.

"I thought not ... that would mean that she still has them, not knowing about us." Holmes seemed about to say more, getting carried away as he does with his deductions, like a train that starts slow and gathers speed, unable to stop and on a very straight track. I coughed and when Holmes turned to look at me (for I had caught him while the train was still slow) I looked discreetly Mrs. Toller, who was beginning to understand who we were and what this might mean to her.

Mrs. Toller flinched when Holmes directed his gaze at her, and I could hardly blame her - his gaze was as powerful and impersonal as a full-steam train.

"You know nothing, of course," Holmes murmured.

"Nothing," she shook her head eagerly, desperately. "I just wanted to help poor Alice."

"But you didn't do anything towards that end. No, Alice's fiance came to kidnap or rescue her, depending on how the viewer sees it, and the mastiff accidentally got loose and killed Rucastle, then escaped. Violet Hunter was nothing more than an ignorant pawn in Rucastle's game, and there were no strangers, certainly no two men. Understand?" Holmes' eyes were the color of bullets, trained on Mrs. Toller.

"Yes, sir." The woman's voice came close to breaking but manged not to.

Holmes stared into Mrs. Toller's face for another second before nodding and turning to Miss Hunter. "You have done nothing suspicious, so no need to run. Send me a report in a week's time to the usual place." Miss Hunter nodded.

Holmes turned on his heel then headed for the door, his long legs making quick work of the space, his footsteps soft but decisive, his grey coat billowing out around him like steam. I lifted my hat to the two ladies and followed Holmes out the door.

"Come, Watson," he said, to no one's benefit really, as I was already falling into step one step behind him. "We were never here."


	7. Who is the Monster?

**_More aSiE! If you were to ask me what this is, I would reply, I'm not entirely sure. Both this and the previous chapter are more like vague ideas I have of this big, epic story, one that I HOPE will get written, one day, but I'm not really sure. For now, I just satisfy myself by writing these little snapshots, we'll call them. It fit today's prompt too well for me to not write. For all the weirdness, I hope you can still enjoy it!_**

* * *

"That fiend!" Baron Gruner cried from his refuge in the armchair. "That criminal! Devil! You must find him, Inspector, or I will never have a moment's peace again!"

"And neither will I nor the rest of Scotland Yard," Inspector Hopkins thought, but he had enough of a head on his shoulders to not say it out loud.

Constables rushed to and fro, gathering what meager evidence they could, while two nurses fussed over the injured Royal. Hopkins had seen many a wound before during his experience in Scotland Yard, but never one quite so ugly. The Baron's previously handsome face had warped into a hideous caricature of what a human face should look like; one eye was white and glazed, the other still red and inflamed, and the rest of the face looked like a smudged painting. It was only with some considerable strength of will and fear of the Royal's ire that Hopkins did not flinch nor look away.

"Your highness, please," Hopkins entreated, "if you could calm down and tell me what happened then I promise to help you in any way the Scotland Yard can."

With the help of a few deep breaths and the nurses help, Baron Gruner managed to calm himself down enough to converse intelligently.

"It started the day before, when I received a note from a Dr. Hill Barton, saying that he had in his possession a set of egg-shell pottery from Ming China, and that he would like to sell it. I am, as you may know, an avid collector of Chinese pottery; I have even written a book on the subject. My suspicion was instantly aroused, because I knew of only one such specimen in England and it was certainly not likely to be in the market. I was, however, intrigued; I could not give up the chance to obtain such a wonderful specimen and I thought the perhaps, if it had been stolen, I could help to return it to its original owner."

"Or keep it for yourself," was Hopkin's mental reflection.

"So I agreed to see him. More fool am I! I was more than a little surprised upon meeting Dr. Barton - he was a connoisseur, I would bet my life on it! It has been a long time since I last met someone who knew as much about Chinese pottery as I did. Our talk ranged from the Ming and Nonhern Wei dynasty, to oh! So many things. He also named a good price, convincing me that he had even read my book.

"Yet I still felt suspicious. Despite his cheery manner, he seemed very mysterious. He avoided answering where he had obtained the set, and was reluctant to answer any personal questions. Well, as I said before, all I wanted was to get the bowl; after that I could find out where it came from and so forth. Just as we were settling on the price, however, I heard someone in my room, and in an instant I thought I had him figured out: he was here to distract me as his accomplice comes in a takes what he wants!

"Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a clear picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the garden was wide open. Beside it stood a man, but it did not look so much like a man as it did a wraith, a demon from hell. He was all black, nothing more than a silhouette in the moonlight, but his eyes, man, his eye! I have never seen such cool, dispassionate eyes that were full of hatred nevertheless. The next instant he was through the gap, and I heard the crash of his body among the laurel bushes outside. I followed him - ah, but this is where I made my mistake.

"For it was not just my demon and the doctor there, you see, but my past as well."

"Your past?" Hopkins asked, wondering why this man was so determined to tell a story instead of give the facts.

"Yes. I have a dark past, Inspector, one that I have repented for may times over and will continue to do so until my death. When I was young and impressionable, I had become involved with a Miss Kitty Winter. She is a low creature but I was so blind as to ... but that is in the past." He waved it away, like the memory was a pesky fly. "It seems that she has not forgiven me for leaving after all these years, for she was there that night, and she is still there, in fact. In some twisted thought of revenge, she threw oil of vitriol on me, perhaps thinking to ruin my features and make my beloved fiancee leave me."

"You say she's still here?"

"Yes. I managed to catch hold of her arm, you see, and, using some of the mental powers of my heritage, managed to kill." The flash in his eyes suggested that it had not been peaceful, and Hopkins shuddered.

You would not think it looking at Baron Gruner but he had some Royal blood in his veins, giving a human appearance and some weak mental skills. Even these so called 'weak' skills were still quite powerful, it seemed.

"So you killed Kitty Winter?" Hopkins struggled to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes. No more than she deserved, of course."

Hopkins nodded, because he was smart and didn't want an early grave or to look for a new job, and took notes to make himself seem more engaged than he actually was.

"I'll get right on it, Baron Gruner, don't you worry. We'll have those men; they can't escape Scotland Yard," Hopkins said, hardly hearing a word he was saying.


	8. Dressing Up

**_Fashion really isn't my thing …_**

 ** _Before anyone points the sexist finger at me, saying that women aren't the only ones who care about fashion, I have this idea (I have many ideas and I just don't know what to do with them all T_T) of a genderbent Holmes and Watson in 1920s-ish, where Watson was one of those nurses from WWI. The whole coat thing made me want to write about a noir-style Holmes but I didn't get any ideas. This was all I could come up with so ... I hope you understand :)_**

* * *

"Holmes, you should involve wearing fashionable clothing in all of your cases," Jane Watson said with a big grin as she admired herself in the mirror. She was never a girl for fashion or looks or any of that, but even for one who never liked how impractical it was to wear short skirts, didn't care tuppence for makeup, and quite liked her hair to be long and unstyled, thank you, could appreciate the beauty of a fur coat such as the one she had on. She turned right and left so she could see the full view of her belted waist, the double row of buttons (she always liked those) and its fuzzy collar.

Shirley Holmes, predictably, raised a derisive eyebrow. "I do not do cases so I can wear coats, Watson, I-"

"Oh, I know, I know; mental exaltation, puzzles, crime is common but logic is rare, and all that." Watson was not normally this giddy but this coat. It so soft and beautiful, and it had been far too long since Miss Watson had done anything indulgent or owned anything luxurious. She still didn't, actually, since she was merely borrowing the coat so she could masquerade as an aristocrat out for dinner and a show later, but she could still enjoy it while she had it. "Will we be able to eat, do you think?"

"I don't know. I've warned you about how dangerous this could become, of course, but it could turn out to be quite boring in the end." Holmes had been the one to put apply makeup on Watson, who had never so much as looked at rouge let alone used one, and was now making herself up. In this, as in all the things Watson had seen her fellow lodger and friend do, she was an expert, but then, Watson had seen her use the same makeup to make herself look like a scullery maid or even a man on many occasions, so an aristocrat should be an easy look to adapt. "Is your revolver oiled and ready?"

Watson opened her purse, revealing the revolver that she had obtained during her time as a nurse in the war that she shouldn't have got nor have kept, and flashed a smile. "Just say the word and I'm your girl."

"Good old Watson. Come then, we seem to be ready. We have a show to catch."


	9. Mangy

Watson fished in his pockets to see if he had anything in the way of eatable-by-dogs and struck gold: the sandwich Holmes had not allowed him to finish that he subsequently wrapped in his handkerchief and put in his pocket, then forgot all about. The doctor smiled and held out the sandwich for the mangy dog. Said dog really was an ugly thing; there was nothing wrong with its brown and white splotched coat, but its emaciation gave it an unnatural look (which was ironic, since there is nothing so natural as hunger) and its right paw seemed to be permanently twisted and useless. The dog, looking wary for a moment, seemed to sense a kindred spirit of sorts and tucked into the sandwich, bread and all. Watson patted the dirty, flee-covered head, taking care to be as gentle and slow as he could so as not to startle the thing. It had, after all, just saved its master's life, one of the Baker Street Irregulars in fact, and Watson believed it deserved a little something.

He wondered if the twisted paw hurt like his leg did, when it was wet and cold.


	10. Choosing A New Path

_**This kind of turned out like the antithesis of the prompt, didn't it? Or you could say it follows it because Harry turned out like his father but Watson didn't but... oh I don't know, it's a hastily-written, unbetaed drabble, don't look too much into it. Oh, and enjoy :)**_

* * *

It was almost scary how much Harry had grown to resemble their father. Especially when he was snoring with his face on the table like that, reeking of alcohol. Watson grimaced but gamely walked into the public house with the intention of dragging his brother out, no matter how much he looked like a ghost. Until this day, slurs and the thick smell of alcohol put Watson in mind of darker days he would rather forget.

Harry mumbled and moaned something or other but Watson didn't feel much like trying to understand what he was trying to say and just pulled Harry's arm over his shoulder, hefted him up.

 _I won't become this,_ Watson thought. _By God and Heaven and every other thing I hold dear, I will_ never _turn out like my father._


End file.
